Fighting Chaos Part II: Unfinished Business
by FraidyCat
Summary: We are born, and we die. It's what we do in between that matters.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Fighting Chaos Part II: Unfinished Business**

**Author: FraidyCat**

**Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. They do occasionally visit from time to time.**

**A/N: This is a story dealing with important issues, and I want to do it justice. Please don't expect rapid-fire updates! Giving you two chapters for starters, because they kind-of go together. One is Charlie's perspective, and Two is Don's.**

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**Chapter 1**

Charlie stood behind his desk, looking out the window over the quad toward the library. Mid-terms were next week, and there was a lot of activity at the library. Still, the students seemed happy enough, for the most part; probably because Spring Break was the week after that. He still had two mid-terms left to write, and Charlie knew he should get to it, but when his last student left his "open-door policy" pre-mid-term office hours, he had gotten up to stretch, and had been drawn to the window…as he often was, of late.

Over the years that he had occupied this office, he had spent hours at this window, and had long ago developed equations for the movement of the students. They navigated like a colony of ants, their activities determined not so much by individual personality as by the time of day, the time of year. Always, there were the random exceptions, the anomalies that proved the pattern. Yet the creatures were predictable as a whole, year after year, and Charlie had often found that comforting, in some way. Stressed or threatened by some new variable in his own life, he could resort to watching them, as if they were gold fish in a bowl.

Today, however, like all days since it happened, he didn't even see them. He stared out the window at nothing, and remembered.

Some days he remembered that things were better now. Everybody was where they should be. Well…almost everybody. Two months ago, Colby had returned to full field duty, completely healed of the broken ribs he'd acquired when he'd taken a round in the vest. Two weeks after that, Don had returned to light, administrative duty, where he chomped at the bit for another two weeks. Then his hairline skull fracture, received when he found himself on the wrong end of a bat in a random alley robbery, was declared completely healed as well. Since then he had also been back on full field duty. After over a month in pieces, the team was back together – and it was good. At the same time that Don had first gone back to light duty, Larry had been able to resume teaching after his bout with pneumonia. He, too, needed to work his way back in a little at a time, but now his stamina had increased to the point where he was back on his old schedule – give or take an occasional evening with Megan. Charlie's own shoulder – dislocated in an automobile accident – had long-since healed. The cast was removed from his broken wrist – the result of a few bad moments of television -- almost a month earlier.

Some days, the darker days, when it looked like rain and the clouds hung low in the sky, he remembered the look on Don's face, when Charlie had appeared in his hospital room at 6:30 in the morning, 71 days ago. His brother had at first smiled, surprised to see him so early but nonetheless pleased. Then his face had clouded darkly, like the days that looked like rain, and he had frowned. He had begun to shake his head, at an ever-increasing tempo that led the nurse close behind Charlie to sedate him eventually, so he wouldn't aggravate his injury. Charlie had watched him drift off to sleep then, tears still running like rain down his face, and had wondered where his own were.

Some days, standing at the window, he remembered leaving Don's room a few hours later, to find a quiet place in the hospital where he could use his cell phone. He remembered calling Uncle Morty, and Aunt Ida, and telling them that their brother Alan was gone. Uncle Morty, fresh off an Alaskan cruise with Alan, was inconsolable, and Charlie didn't have the heart to tell him that the cruise had killed Alan, that the small cut they had not taken care of onboard ship had magnified into a septic monster that stole his father's kidneys and crushed his heart. He remembered other phone calls, too – like the one to Megan; and, he remembered the visit to Larry's hospital room. He remembered those things. He just didn't want to.

Some days – and these were the hardest ones – he remembered sitting alone with the "family care consultant" in the funeral home that same afternoon. He remembered learning that his father had purchased some sort of policy when his mother had died. He learned that Alan had taken the time to carefully fill out all the questionnaires and forms, and there was little left for Charlie to do. Alan had already taken care of everything. Charlie had found himself sitting in a lush garden behind the office, wondering if Alan had done that because he didn't think Charlie would be able to.

Some days – and these were the best ones – he remembered other things. He remembered being 11 years old, and going to the fish store with his father, picking out the first koi for the pond. Alan had let him name the fish Clarence, without even asking why. He remembered countless times he sat on bleachers, sandwiched between his mother and his father, watching Donnie play ball. Charlie invariably had a notebook, and spent half the game plotting the number of balls Don pitched in relationship to his stance, or designing equations that would lead to the exact number of seconds-point-milliseconds it would take his mother to gasp and hide her face, every time Don slid into a base. He remembered the Saturday mornings his father gave up to take Charlie to various tutors, or classes. In the last 71 days, Charlie had remembered a lot of things he hadn't even realized he knew, and now he knew something else. He knew that he had taken a lot of things for granted, along the way.

Today as he stood at the window, he remembered last year, when U.C.-San Diego had asked him to come down and do his "Math in the Real World" presentation for an evening of seminars they were conducting for local high schoolers and their parents. He had asked his father to go with him, dropping him off at his sister's for a visit. Charlie had gone on to campus, where he had dinner with the mathematics faculty. Later, when he had entered the lecture hall to conduct his seminar, he was startled to see his father and Aunt Ida seated near the back. Alan was involved in an animated conversation with the middle-aged man next to him, and the bored teenager that parent had dragged with him. Charlie was stopped a few times on the way to their seats to ask why they were wasting their evening together – he'd give them money for a movie, or something, if they were bored with each other already. He finally stood behind them, and heard Alan's comment to the teenager. "… a chance, it's a fascinating lecture. I attend once or twice a year, myself, whenever my son does this at home. He's a well-known mathematician, you know, you're very lucky to hear him speak. At the top of his field. I brought his aunt to hear him tonight. She never has," Alan chuckled, glancing at Ida. "She just thinks I'm like every other proud father when I talk about Charlie!" Charlie had stood in such stunned silence behind him that it had taken Alan and Ida another minute to notice him – and when they did, he just made some lame excuse about needing to borrow a $20 for one of his demonstrations.

Today, standing at the window, he closed his eyes and felt the sun on his face, and remembered his father's smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Don stood in the open doorway of Charlie's office and watched his brother stare out the window.

He had been proud of Charlie, these last couple of months. He had also been pissed as hell. Both situations resulted from the same thing – Charlie's reaction to losing Alan. When it had first happened, so suddenly, Don had reeled. Between his recent head injury and the shock, he didn't remember much of the first week at all. He apparently had refused to go to Charlie's house when he was released from the hospital, so Charlie had come to his apartment. He had slept on the couch and had taken care of Don, physically. He had designed a chart and made sure every pill was taken on schedule, every meal was eaten on time and contained the correct nutritional value. He had also taken care of Don emotionally, whether he knew it or not. Don knew. He knew that he could not have even gotten himself dressed for the service, if Charlie had not gently led him into his bedroom, opened the closet and chosen a suit.

By the second week, Don had recovered enough to start worrying. Where was Charlie putting his grief? Charlie had been going by the house every evening to check on things, pick up the mail and feed the koi, and one night after he returned, Don cornered him. They sat on opposite ends of the couch, and Don had, after a shaky start, found his big brother voice again. He advised Charlie not to internalize or suppress his grief. Charlie had assured him that he wasn't, and had picked that evening to tell Don about his last visit with Alan. After two days of heartbreaking delirium, Dad had been himself. He had asked about Don, looking forward to seeing him the next day. He had made jokes. He had said he had good sons. "When I left, I kissed him good-night for you," Charlie had said, and Don found himself blubbering like a baby again, unaccountably grateful and torn apart at the same time.

In the morning, while he was sitting next to Charlie eating Cheerios, he had begun to get angry. Charlie was going back to work that day – Don himself would start light duty in another week – and he seemed so relieved about it. He had missed almost a week after the automobile accident he had been in with another professor, then worked one day and missed another 10 dealing with Don's injury. Don tried to tell himself it was understandable that Charlie be happy. He loved teaching; he must have missed it. Later that morning, though, lying on the couch and turning off "The Price Is Right" – the shouting was giving him a headache – he had put another definition to his anger. The last few months of their mother's life, Charlie had retreated to the garage, immersing himself in some ridiculous, unsolvable math equation. He had virtually lived in the garage, only skulking in every few days to shower and change his clothes. Alan had insisted that he and Don keep feeding and watering him They took regular trays of sustenance to him, sometimes having to replace the chalk ever-present in his hand with a sandwich, or a bottle of water, before he even realized that one of them was there and talking to him. Then, after their mother had finally passed away, Don had to drag Charlie into the house by his t-shirt, and had to watch him as if he were a child to make sure he stayed there. The day of the service, he had even asked if he had to go. Don had watched Alan's eyes fill with tears and had shoved Charlie roughly toward the bathroom, ordering him in a low, bitter voice to get ready.

They had been horrible days, days that had led to months of difficulty in their relationship. It was not that Don wanted to see that happen again. He didn't want to watch Charlie retreat again…but how could he go, in three short years, from that extreme to the sad but well-adjusted man who had been taking care of him? Did Charlie simply love Dad so much less than he had Mom? Was the grief not as deep, because the relationship had not been as deep? If that was the case, Charlie was just as wrong now as he had been then. Sure, when they had been children, Don was closer to Alan and Charlie was closer to Mom. But they were men, now. They were old enough to understand how deeply the roots of each parent were buried in their own souls. Plus, Charlie and Alan had been living as roommates the last three years, and had seemed to be growing closer every time he saw them together. Don couldn't help it. He felt that Alan deserved more from Charlie, somehow.

He had told himself not to judge another man's grief. He had told himself to keep a close watch – Charlie could blow at any second, and he should be there. It was just the two of them, now. Then they had each returned to work, to life. Both had been legitimately behind, and long days were required. While they had spoken on the phone almost every day, they hadn't really seen that much of each other since those first two weeks.

Now, standing in the doorway and watching Charlie at the window, Don found himself wondering just how well Charlie was doing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

When Charlie finally decided he really had to get to those mid-terms, he turned away from the window and found Don sitting in the chair in front of the desk. Charlie's eyes got wide; he took a step back and swore softly, startled.

Don laughed at his "deer-in-the-headlights" expression. "Hey, Buddy."

Charlie smiled. "Don't sneak up on me like that."

"Right. Unreasonable of me to sit down after talking to you for five minutes."

Charlie reddened. "You're kidding."

Don relented. "Well…exaggerating, maybe. But I did call you several times. Where were you?"

Charlie shrugged. "Avoiding mid-terms. I still have to write two and e-mail them to the Division Secretary tonight." He looked sheepish, "She's cutting me a break – they were actually due yesterday."

Don looked disappointed. "Oh. I was hoping we could go to dinner or something tonight."

Charlie crossed to the side of his office to sit on the couch. "Sorry. That would have been nice. Rain check?"

Don got up from the chair and joined Charlie near the couch, sitting in one of the chairs facing it. "Always. Whenever. The team wants you to join us for lunch sometime soon, too."

Charlie nodded, and Don shifted a little, suddenly uncomfortable. Charlie noticed. "What is it?"

Don sighed. "You know when Colby and I both got back to work, I put the team in for some refresher training. I should have been more aware in that alley, and Megan and Colby should have been more aware out on the street."

"I keep telling you, the alley was my fault. I was talking to you on the phone."

Don shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I'm a federal agent, Charlie, I need to be able to do two things at once. Anyway, Merrick decided it was a good idea, and he's actually sending us all to Quantico for a week."

Charlie smiled again. "Good. That's good. A refresher course will make you all safer. It will decrease the odds of…something serious happening." He stopped smiling and looked down at his hands.

Don paused. "How much time have you spent working on those odds, Charlie?"

Charlie was sitting with one foot crossed over the other knee, and he started bouncing his foot up and down. "Not as much as you might think. Some things I don't want to know." He redirected the conversation quickly. "So when are you leaving?"

Don noticed, but let it go. "That's just it. He's not giving us a lot of notice. He booked us for next week – we're flying into D.C. Sunday."

Charlie looked surprised. "Oh. Wow. So we'll have to do something together tomorrow, then."

Don tried to look affronted. "Unless that's a problem, your highness."

Charlie laughed. "No, no, I think I can fit that in. Just gives me one more reason to stay and write these exams tonight!"

Don smiled. "I should probably let you get at it, then."

He didn't actually move, and after a moment Charlie spoke again, tentatively. "Don…can I stay at your apartment while you're gone?"

Don looked at him, surprised. "Something wrong at the house?"

Charlie shook his head, and started to explain away his request. "It's just that mid-terms are next week, and your apartment is closer to campus…" He trailed off, and looked toward the window again. Don studied his profile, and when Charlie looked back his eyes were suspiciously bright. "I feel him there, all the time," he finally said, softly. Don didn't know how to respond to that, and after a few seconds Charlie continued. "Sometimes, I think I hear him. In the kitchen, when I'm in the living room. Upstairs, when I'm in the kitchen. I find myself wishing I could just…catch him. The house is not a home anymore, Don, it's just a…memory factory. I'm thinking of selling."

Don leaned forward a little in his chair, elbows on knees. He spoke sincerely. "I'm sorry, Charlie. I didn't realize it was still so difficult for you at the house. I should have been paying more attention... Still. Selling…that's a big decision. They say you shouldn't make decisions like that during the first year after a major loss. It's been less than three months."

"71 days," Charlie supplied, and Don didn't know why he was surprised that Charlie knew how many days it had been. Hell, he could probably tell him how many hours.

"Yeah," he agreed softly. "71 days."

"Frankly, Don, I don't know if I can go nine more months without sleep."

Don was startled. "What?" He searched his brother's face. "You haven't been sleeping since it happened? You look tired, Charlie, but not that tired…"

Charlie actually blushed. "I stayed in a hotel for a few days. I knew I couldn't go into mid-terms that exhausted."

Don silently kicked himself. He had known he needed to watch Charlie, but he hadn't done it. His anger at himself showed in his voice. "A hotel? Charlie, that's stupid – you should have called me. You know you can have the couch whenever you want it."

"I was embarrassed," Charlie admitted reluctantly, looking at the floor. "I am embarassed. A 32-year-old man who can't sleep through the night because his mommy and d-…a grown man who can't be alone."

Don softened his tone. "That's not it, Charlie. You were alone in the hotel, and you slept there, right?"

Charlie just looked back up at him and blinked.

Don sat back in the chair. "Listen," he said, thinking out loud. "I can talk to Merrick. Explain that this is a bad time to leave."

"Don't be an idiot," Charlie said, annoyed. "I haven't seen you in over two weeks, and now you want to sit and stare at me all day?"

Don had asked for that. Well, he had to give Charlie points for honesty today. Don would try it himself. "I'm sorry. Nothing should come before family. Not work, or the occasional date with Robin, or…"

Charlie rushed in, smiling. "Robin? You're dating Robin? In a serious way?"

Now Don was embarrassed. "Well geez, kid, I'm 37 years old. I mean, we're not engaged or anything remotely like it, but a 37-year-old who's still dating should be doing it seriously, don't you think?"

Charlie laughed loudly, sounding happy. "That's great, Donnie! You should bring her to dinner some night. Dad will…" That quickly, the good mood ended. "Shit," he said dejectedly, and that one syllable nearly broke Don's heart.

They sat in silence for a few heartbeats before Don started speaking again. "Of course you can stay at my apartment while I'm gone. Do you still have your key?"

Charlie nodded, not quite ready to risk words again. Don watched him. "Why don't you come over tonight, when you're finished here? Tomorrow we'll go by the house and pack enough stuff for a week, and then go by the batting cages or something. Ask the neighbors to feed the koi and pick up the mail, give yourself a real break from the house. Maybe this week will help you decide if you really want to sell." Charlie didn't answer right away, which meant that he was considering it. Don pushed ahead. "Come on, Chuck. You have to drive me to the airport Sunday anyway."

Charlie smiled a little then, a lopsided grin. "When you come back," he asked, "will you bring me a present?"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Relieved at the prospect of being alone in Don's apartment all week, Charlie found an energy to write his mid-terms that his students would be frightened to know about. He was a popular teacher – but he was not easy. He put his entire being into it. He honestly loved the concepts and theories he tried to teach, and he was accessible to students for individual and small group sessions. For these efforts on his part, he expected efforts on theirs. When he looked over the exams a final time, he hesitated. Perhaps they were too difficult – after all, he had missed over two weeks at the very beginning of the classes, when foundations were being laid. In the end, he decided that they were mid-terms, and this would be a good way to determine if the students were where they should be. The results would help him plan the rest of the semester. If a mass tragedy occurred – like failure of the entire class – he promised himself he would listen to reason. He e-mailed them off to the Division Secretary, and then worked off his residual energy by locating the top of his desk. Usually, he only did that at the beginning of every semester, but things…had not been usual, lately.

Generally, he worked on one of his own projects when confronted with surplus time or energy. Research for an article. Cognitive emergence. Consulting for the FBI, or some other agency. Charlie hadn't mentioned it to Don – as it was, he had probably set some kind of new land speed record for confession, tonight – but he could not bring himself to go into the garage. He didn't understand that – the garage had long ago been taken over by his work, and become his office. It wasn't as if Alan had spent a lot of time there. He usually only showed up when he wanted to persuade Charlie to leave it for a while. The house, though – what he had said to Don had been true. Alan was all over that house. Every night, Charlie tried to go to the garage, to escape him – but he just couldn't go in.

He remembered feeling the same way about the house when his mother had died. It was the same – but it was different. He wasn't there alone to do battle with her ghost. Alan had been with him. He never stopped feeling her there, but eventually it became a comfort rather than a curse. Maybe Don was right about selling the house; the same thing could happen again. Charlie sighed, his energy suddenly dissipating. He didn't know how long he could wait. The house threatened to swallow him whole.

He looked at his watch, surprised to see that it was almost midnight. He glanced at the couch. He also hadn't told Don about sleeping there, for the last three nights, only going home around 4 or 5 a.m. to feed the koi in the dark, shower, change his clothes and then arrive back at CalSci at more or less his usual time. Larry didn't suspect a thing. Don's couch was larger than the one in his office. Sleeping on it tonight would be an improvement.

When he arrived at Don's apartment, his brother had already gone to bed. Neatly stacked on the couch were a pair of sweats, a clean t-shirt and a couple of towels. There were also blankets and a pillow. Charlie stood in the dim light of one lamp and stared down at them, and felt tears spring to his eyes. Don had done this for him. He had taken the time to think about what Charlie would need and gather it all together. He had taken care of Charlie, and no one had done that in 72 days.

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At the house the next day, Don went into the kitchen for a beer while Charlie was upstairs packing. He had been here a few times since Dad passed, but this time it felt different – probably because he knew now that Charlie was having a hard time here. Truth be told, Don had avoided coming to the house, and not just when he was released from the hospital. The few times he and Charlie had gotten together were usually at a bar, a restaurant, or his apartment. He didn't like being here anymore, either.

He opened the refrigerator and instinctively stepped back, assailed by the smell of something rotten. Peering cautiously inside, he decided that several things were rotten – or moldy. He dragged the trash can over and began methodically tossing over half the contents of the appliance. He was inspecting a petrified carrot from the vegetable bin when the door swung open behind him. "There you are," he heard Charlie say. "I'm all packed. The fish are fed. Let's go."

Don turned to look at his anxious brother. "When's the last time you opened this refrigerator?"

"I eat," Charlie said defensively. "Just…not here."

Don arched an eyebrow.

"This is the worst room," Charlie finally said lamely. He looked at the kitchen table, and the three chairs surrounding it, then back at Don a little desperately, "Can we go now?"

Don turned away so he wouldn't have to look at his face anymore, and made a show of throwing away the carrot – plus all the other former vegetables in the bin. He heard Charlie shifting behind him, so he closed the door then and knotted the trash bag. "Okay," he said. "I'll just dump this on the way."

Charlie didn't hear that last part, about the trash, Don knew. As soon as he'd said, "Okay," Charlie had been halfway to the SUV.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Charlie looked forward to his first night using Don's apartment, almost unreasonably so. He actually had a tension headache by the time he got back from taking Don and Colby to the airport. Maybe it was Colby's forced cheerfulness, his insistence that Charlie meet them for lunch the Monday they all got back to work, and his total refusal to accept any other arrangement. Charlie hated being backed into a corner, told what to do – even it was something he wanted to do, something he would end up doing anyway, he wanted it to be on his own terms. Barring that, he at least wanted to be part of the decision-making process.

Plus, after the stop at the house yesterday, Don had been…watching him, or something. It was unnerving. Charlie would have expected it, if things had been different 73 days ago. If Don had been healthy, more of his usual self, he probably would have been watching Charlie like a hawk, apprehensive that he would retreat into his own world again – like with Mom. So. Maybe…maybe that had actually worked in his favor, having to concentrate on Don those first few days. At any rate, it had been two-and-a-half months, and Charlie was doing was he was supposed to, wasn't he? Well, he was keeping up with his classes, anyway, and he'd get back to everything else in time. He hoped. Why did Don keep looking at him as if he were a stranger?

Lugging a 6-pack – Charlie seemed to be drinking more, lately – and a quart of Rocky Road ice cream, Charlie took the stairs up to Don's apartment. He slid the key in the lock, almost eager in his anticipation of…peace. He pushed the door open, passed through and slammed it behind him with his foot, heading for the kitchen. He put the ice cream in the freezer and the beer in the refrigerator, grabbing one of the cold ones already there. Then he headed for the living room – and froze.

Someone was standing at the window, looking out, and from the back it looked so much like Dad, Charlie couldn't even find it in himself to be frightened. Then the figure turned and smiled at him – and it was Dad. "Oh, my God," Charlie said. The unopened beer slipped through his fingers and thunked on the carpet.

Alan looked at it and frowned a little. "You don't usually drink alone, do you Charlie?"

Charlie couldn't make himself move. "Oh, my God," he repeated.

Alan tilted his head at him and smiled sadly. "I'm not really here, son. You just want me to be."

Charlie closed his eyes tightly, breathing as if he'd just run a marathon, counted to 15 and then opened them again. Alan was gone, and Charlie didn't know if he was relieved or angry or terrified. He stood silently for a while, then finally picked up the beer and sat in the recliner. He knew if he opened the beer now if would foam over the top, so he just held it for a while and looked at the place where Alan had been.

Eventually, it came to him. When they had helped Don move in to this apartment, Alan had stood there to check out the view. Charlie looked at the couch, and though it had been his friend the last two nights, now it stood as him enemy.The cushion where Alan sat, the day they had brought Don soup because he had the flu, actually seemed to glow a little. He looked away, to the kitchen barstools. Alan had preferred the one on the left, for some reason, and if Charlie tried, he could see him sitting there now.

With a deep moan of realization, Charlie understood that the memories were not in the house. They were in him. At the last second yesterday, he had packed the bottle of sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed for him soon after Alan's death, and he rose to go look for them, wondering if he could sell his head.

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A good, drug-induced night of sleep, and the memories in the apartment were not as strong. Don's presence was much stronger. This was his home, and Alan and Charlie had not really spent that much time here. Charlie probably would have had an okay week of it, did, in fact, until day 76. Wednesday he sat listlessly in classes, watching over a sea of blue books, tired and achy and chilled. It was the last chance for students to come to him for help – he had scheduled his mid-terms to end on Thursday, so that he could spend Friday grading and the kids could get an early start on Spring Break – and his office hours that afternoon were full. A scratchy throat had given way to coughing around noon, and he hacked his way into early evening trying to help the students who Just Kept Coming. Larry stopped by at 6, on his way home. Seeing – and hearing -- that Charlie had essentially lost his voice and was resorting to sign language, he declared office hours over and hustled the students out.

He watched the last grumble down the hall, and then turned back to Charlie. He was prepared to insist that Charles go home and rest, was structuring his arguments even as he turned, but Charlie was already pocketing his keys. He looked at the lap top on his desk and the backpack on the floor, then at Larry. "Screw it," he whispered, "I'm not working any more tonight."

Larry was momentarily stunned. Finally, he managed a weak, "I should hope not, Charles," and had allowed his friend to brush past him before he thought to offer him a ride.

Charlie paused just long enough to smile thinly and decline, silently glad that Don's apartment was so close to campus.

Getting there in a haze, Charlie found himself in the bedroom, too tired to even take his shoes off. He sat on the edge of the bed until he could force himself to do it, though – after all, this wasn't his bed, he should be polite – then he lay down for a little while until he could find the energy to undress. Somewhere in the middle of the night, he began to remove pieces of clothing, as he grew too warm to stand them anymore, and he awoke Thursday morning lying on the mattress cover – the sheet was on the floor – in nothing but one sock and a small pool of saliva.

Managing somehow to get back to campus by 8, Charlie alternately sweated and shivered his way through the last seven hours of mid-terms. His last class was in another building since part of the math building was being renovated, and Charlie didn't even try to go back to his office. Instead he asked a T.A. to drop off the test papers there, and he was back in Don's bed before 3:30 Thursday afternoon.

Larry called, waking him, around 6. Charlie assured him hoarsely that he was resting, he was fine, he might take the next few days off and start grading on Sunday. Once awakened, Charlie lay and thought, almost abstractly, of his father's chicken soup. His head pounded, and he remembered green gelatin so fondly that he teared-up a little. By 7 he had convinced himself that no matter what he did, no-one would ever love him that much again, and he sobbed painfully for a while, until he finally drifted off again.

It was a brief respite, for the phone reclaimed him at 8. Charlie woke up in a panic, feeling as if he couldn't breathe, nose stuffy from the cold and the tears. His arms and legs flailed on the bed for a second, until he figured out where he was and that the noise he was hearing was his cell. Thinking it was Larry again, he answered. "Slebig."

There was a pause, then Don's hesitant "Charlie?"

Charlie closed his eyes, turned his head on the pillow and tried not to groan. "Dod."

"Um…are you all right?"

"Code. Done beel goo…"

On his end of the country, Don felt much more panic than a cold called for. His father had only had a simple cut on the leg, and Don, stupid enough to get clubbed in an alley, had not been there to help. Now, he was nearly 2,000 miles away, and couldn't help Charlie…and Dad. Dad wasn't there anymore to make soup, take Charlie's temperature, fuss and worry…

"I'll come home tomorrow," he said, a little frantically.

"Class ober?"

"Tomorrow's the last day. We have a flight Saturday morning, but I'll just leave early."

Charlie coughed into the phone. "Sowwy. I finnish by class, you finnish yours."

"Who's taking care of you?", Don insisted, and Charlie actually heard a knock on the door when he asked. It kind-of scared him – what kind of superpowers had Don developed at Quantico?

"Lawwy's heah," he answered. It had to be Larry. He was the only one who knew he was staying at Don's this week.

"Let me talk to him."

Shit. Charlie had to answer the door. "Jus minnid." He rolled onto his side, and used the bedside table to pull himself up. He stood there weaving for a while, trying to remember why he had done that, when the knock sounded at the door again. It was louder, this time. Charlie staggered toward it, hand trailing against the wall all the way. He finally got there, and clutching Don in one hand, remembered to peer out the peephole. He leaned against the wall and threw open the door, shoving the cell in a startled Larry's face.

Larry shifted his load of carryout soup and pharmacy bag, and accepted the phone. "Yes? To whom am I speaking, please?"

Don felt some measure of relief. At least Charlie wasn't alone, sick as a dog. He'd sounded sick as a dog – that part was true – but he hadn't been lying about Larry. "Larry. Don. You take care of him, all right?" Don knew he was speaking gruffly and giving orders, not requesting help, but he didn't care. He was scared, dammit, and he hated being scared. "Please," he finally added.

"Of course, Don," Larry soothed, hearing the fear in his voice. "That's why I'm here. I'm sure I won't do as thorough a job as Alan would, but I will not leave Charles alone in his condition."

Don admired the way Larry just put it out there like that – no pretending he didn't know what was going on. "Thanks," he said.

"I'll see you Saturday, Don. If Charles does not feel up to the drive to the airport, you and Colby can ride with me. I'll be picking up Megan."

"Uh…thanks," Don repeated, awkwardly. He just could not wrap his head around those two together. "I'll see you then."

Larry disconnected and looked back at Charlie, who was gray and sweaty and leaned with his eyes closed against the wall. The eyes popped open and appealed to Larry. "Helb," Charlie said, and started sliding down the wall.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Somehow Larry got Charlie up and moving back toward Don's bed. Charlie collapsed onto it in a sitting position and would have continued to melt, had Larry not grabbed an arm, effectively preventing further movement. "Charles, let me look at you," he said.

Charlie gazed up at him. It was time for the wounded puppy look. That always got him what he wanted. "Lemmee sleep," he begged.

Larry raised a hand to his head and scratched. "I don't know, Charles, the soup is warm now…"

Charlie smiled a little. "Dad made soup? Granma's?"

Larry lowered his hand to cover his mouth, then seemed to decide something and sat next to Charlie on the bed. "Charles." He spoke as gently as he could. "You're ill. You remember that Alan is gone, right?"

He could feel a shudder pass through Charlie, and he waited for his friend to speak. It took quite a while, and Larry was beginning to think he had fallen asleep sitting up. Finally, he simply said, "Oday," which Larry interpreted as "Okay".

"I brought some soup from the deli. Do you think you could eat some?"

"Oday," Charlie said again, and Larry stood and left the room, returning almost immediately with a styrofoam cup of soup, and the pharmacy bag.

He took the lid off the cup and placed it carefully in Charlie's hands. "This is a rich chicken broth, you can just drink it. Do you have it, Charles?" Charlie nodded, and Larry let go. He fumbled with the pharmacy bag. Opening it, he peered inside, as if its contents were secret, and finally drew out a bottle of Tylenol. Charlie sipped his soup and watched Larry work diligently for a few seconds on the child-proof cap. "Oh, dear. The manufacturers of this medication seem to have found a way to defy the laws of physics."

Charlie snorted into his soup and started coughing, which made his head near implosion. He thrust the cup back at Larry. "Done," he said, and his tone would have brooked no argument if he hadn't sounded like a two-year-old girl. He raised shaking hands to either side of his curls. "My heb," he said miserably, letting it sink towards his chest. "Hurbs."

Larry tilted his own head. "Herbs? I purchased this product for your fever and headache, Charles, but I can't seem to open it, so it you know of some herbs Don keeps in the apartment, we can try those."

Charlie raised his head again to look at his hero – the man who was here obstensibly to help him. Later, when he felt better, he would appreciate the thought. Now, Charlie considered throwing up on him. He wasn't particularly nauseous, but he could probably manage to bring the soup back up. He thrust out a hand and grabbed the bottle of Tylenol from Larry. Eyes slightly unfocused, he still managed to line up the arrows and flip the red top off.

"Oh, my…" Larry was looking at the bottle with a mixture of relief and apprehension. "That was impressive. Yet there seems to be another barrier to overcome."

Charlie looked down, expecting cotton, and instead saw one of the newer tamper-proof lid seals. He took a deep breath to sigh, and instead had another coughing fit. Larry stood awkwardly over him. He looked at the cup of soup he still clutched and frowned. His free hand approached his chin. "Perhaps something to drink, Charles?"

Charlie nodded while he coughed, and Larry happily left the room again. When he reappeared it was with a glass of water. He seemed inordinately proud of himself. He offered it to Charlie, who had pierced the Tylenol seal with a fingernail and ripped it off, and had three waiting in his hand. He drank almost half the glass of water and placed it on the bedside table. He began listing toward the pillow. "Tangs," he said, watching Larry rummage through the pharmacy bag again.

This time, the physicist drew out a bottle of liquid. He held it up for Charlie's inspection. "For your cough," he explained. "The pharmacist recommended it. Would you like some?"

Charlie started imagining another run-in with a child-proof cap, and as much as he would have liked some, he shook his head. "Ull jus sleeb dow," he intoned.

Larry looked a little disappointed to be denied the battle, but he put the bottle down on the table. Then he regarded Charlie as if he were a science experiment.

"Whad?" said Charlie irritably.

Larry scratched his head. "Do you require assistance with your clothing?"

Charlie almost laughed again, but remembered what happened the last time. If he ever had occasion to go trolling for girls in bars, he'd remember that line. "Uh goddid," he managed. "U don hab do day."

Larry peered at him. "Excuse me?"

Charlie tried again. "Um allrid dow. U cn go hob."

Larry brightened. "Oh! I believe I got it that time. No, no, Charles, I promised Don I would stay, and I intend to." His face suddenly softened. "Your brother is very worried about you. I believe he feels – vulnerable, right now."

Charlie didn't answer, or even look at him. Larry could see his eyes drooping. "Well. I did bring my lap top – it's out in the car. If you're all right preparing yourself for bed, I'll just go get it."

Charlie nodded silently and Larry smiled, relieved. "Yes. All right, then." He headed for the door again.

While he was gone, Charlie managed to get himself to the bathroom, where he changed into his sweats and t-shirt, only almost falling twice. After using his last ounce of energy to brush his teeth, he threw open the door to find Larry hovering in the hall. He looked decidedly less relieved, bordering on guilty. He walked slightly behind Charlie back to the bed. "I'm afraid I'm not very experienced at this sort of thing," he finally said. "Please tell me what I can do."

Charlie lay down, and clutched at a blanket with his hand. He closed his eyes. "Ur dooin graad," he said tiredly. "Turn obb da lide?" When that didn't happen right away, Charlie, without opening his eyes, pointed a hand at the ceiling. "Da lide," he repeated, and he heard Larry's quick intake of comprehension.

"Oh, yes, of course. The light. Well. Good-night, Charles. Feel better. I'll be in the living room, if you need anything."

With that, the room finally dimmed, and Charlie heard Larry walking away.

He lay in Don's bed, and a feeling of melancholy overtook him. While he waited for sleep, he knew that the one thing he needed, Larry couldn't give him.

Charlie wanted his daddy.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Larry did indeed stay with Charlie, tottering occasionally down the hall to gaze upon his sleeping form, when he wasn't working on grading a stack of tests he had brought with him. He slept a few hours on the couch, and in the morning tried to persuade Charlie to eat something before he went to campus to administer his last mid-term. Charlie just rolled over and put the pillow on top of his head, mumbling, so Larry patted him awkwardly on the shoulder and left, promising to be back before noon.

When he returned, toting a backpack of blue books and Charlie's lap top, so that his friend could work from home for a few days, he found an empty soup cup and a note on the bar: _Larry. Got up. Ate. Took pills, cough med (I got it open). Back in bed. Thank you. C_

Larry's lap top and work was already at the apartment, so after he had checked on Charlie and found him sleeping, he settled in at the bar for an afternoon's work.

In the bedroom, Charlie lay on his side, his back to the door, allowing himself some self-pity. He clutched pillows to him – Don must have at least six on this bed, what was that about? – and wished that things were different. He wanted to be alone – whenever he heard Larry approaching, he would close his eyes and fake it – but he also longed for the touch of his father's hand on his hot forehead. That made no sense to him. Alan's hovering used to drive him mad. He was always telling his father to relax, stop worrying, stop making green gelatin and soup. Now, it felt as if Charlie were missing two things: The comfort that was his father, and the joy of insisting he didn't need it.

Faking it soon became a legitimate nap, and Charlie dreamed of his mother's rose bushes and a red fox, running through the woods with an arrow through its flank. He awoke more tired than when he had drifted off. A look at the alarm clock told him it was evening, though, so he forced himself up to the edge of the bed. He sat there for a moment, and drained the tepid water he found in a glass on the bedside table, and then pulled himself up. It was cold outside the covers, and he wrapped his arms around himself as he padded to the kitchen, where he stood behind Larry.

"Is there anything to eat?" he asked hoarsely, and the physicist jolted, then whipped his head around.

"Oh, my. Charles. You startled me."

Charlie hugged himself tighter. "Sorry."

Larry smiled benevolently. "Not to worry. You're sounding a little better."

"I'll take your word for that."

Larry chuckled and slipped off the barstool. "I brought more soup from the deli. Minestrone today. Would you like me to heat some?"

Charlie nodded and planted himself on a stool. Larry reached into the refrigerator for a large container. "I thought I might join you," he said, and soon he had two bowls heating in the microwave.

During the evening repast, in-between Larry's supervision of the taking of more pills and cough medicine, Charlie managed to convince him that he should go home and sleep in a real bed himself that night. "I'm fine here alone," Charlie insisted. "Didn't I do good while you were on campus this morning? I ate, and medicated, and everything."

Larry blew on a spoon of soup to cool it. "If you're sure…" he began, thinking with longing of his antique brass bed.

Charlie suddenly shivered. "It's cold out here. I'm going back to bed, where it's warm. My cell is on the table Larry, I can call if I need something – but I'm sure I'll be sleeping all night. I know I've been sleeping all day…but I'm so tired."

Larry stood and took his soup bowl to the kitchen sink, where he rinsed it out before placing it in the dishwasher. "All-right," he finally conceded. He came to the bar to take Charlie's bowl, and looked owlishly at him for a moment. "I just want to be sure you understand something, Charles."

Charlie looked at him, and waited.

Larry sighed a little. "Alan – even dear Margaret – they were not the only ones who loved you. The rest of us cannot, and do not, hope to compete with them, or replace them at all – but we appreciate it when you allow us to show you, in some small way, that you are not alone."

Tears sprang to Charlie's eyes, and he fought to control himself as he slid off his barstool. He met Larry's eyes briefly. "Th-Thank-you," he finally managed, and felt like an idiot when he added, "drive carefully." Then, before Larry could say any more, he hurried as fast as he could to the bathroom, so he wouldn't have to watch someone else leave.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Saturday morning, Larry stopped by on his way to the airport to pick up Megan, Don and Colby. Charlie woke up earlier feeling well enough that he would have gone with him, but the car was already going to be packed with people and luggage.

When Larry got to the apartment, he found Charlie in the middle of changing the sheets on Don's bed. He helped him finish, left him a sandwich he had brought, and insisted that Charlie take some more medication, even if he was feeling better.

After he left, taking the trash from the kitchen with him, Charlie toured the apartment with a can of Lysol, picking up after his week there and trying to make things neat enough and healthy enough that Don would not regret letting him stay. He had intended to do the laundry before Don got back, but when he looked at the basket full of sheets and towels and sweats, all energy drained out of him, and he barely made it to the couch. He would just sit down for a few minutes first, before he made the trip to the apartment complex's laundry facilities.

When he awoke, the living room was dim, and Don was asleep in the recliner opposite the couch. Charlie, still clutching the can of Lysol, pushed himself up stiffly. He sat like a normal person for a while, comtemplating the can of Lysol, then placed it on the end table next to the couch and leaned back against the cushions. He opened his mouth to yawn, and a horrible sound erupted instead. This was not a cough. This was a bull elk in rut, according to the American Sportsman.

Don jerked awake while Charlie was still barking, eyes shut, waiting for the spikes to his dull headache that never actually arrived. He opened his eyes tentatively, and saw Don staring at him. "That sounded terrible," he said.

In spite of his worry, Don laughed. "Isn't that my line?" The frown was quickly back. "You sound like crap." He appraised his brother. "Don't look much better. Larry said you were improving."

Charlie lifted his feet onto the couch and curled into the corner, slumping a little more. "I am," he said. "I felt much worse yesterday, and the day before. I've had a cough, but I don't know where that hack came from. I didn't mean to fall asleep again, either. How was Quantico?"

Don considered. "You do sound better than you did on the phone. Kind-of. It was a real team-building experience. We even did one of those 48-hours-in-the-wilderness things. Much more powerful than I thought it would be."

"You guys have always been close," Charlie said, and Don thought it sounded a little wistful.

"You're part of the team too, Charlie. Everybody kept saying how you should have been there with us."

Charlie changed the subject. "I changed your sheets. I meant to do the laundry."

Don smiled. "Yeah, I saw the can of Lysol you were sleeping with. Everything looks great, Charlie – but you're taking the bed again tonight. You're still not well."

Charlie shook his head stubbornly. "No. Maybe I'll stay another night on the couch, if that's okay…but I'm going home tomorrow."

Don wished there was more light in the room to study his brother. He looked tired, and sick, but it seemed like…it felt like…there was more. "Charlie. You doing okay, Buddy?"

Charlie blinked at the ceiling for a while. At length, he began to speak. "Donnie…do you think he was the only thing holding us together? As a family, I mean."

Don was shocked. "No. No. I'm sorry I haven't come to the house as much – it's difficult for me there too," he admitted. Don was fresh off a week of team-building and bonding, and while he'd had enough of that for a while, and needed to decompress from the emotion of it, he thought he could dig up a little more for his brother. "Charlie, we've both been wrong."

Charlie took his eyes off the ceiling and gave them to his brother, warily interested.

Don continued. "Maybe it hasn't been as obvious as what happened with Mom, but still, we both turned to work instead of each other after Dad…after Dad. We can't do that, we can't let him be all that held us together. We need to make time for each other – more than just phone calls. You're my best friend, Charlie, and I'll bet you don't even know that."

Charlie hated what being sick did to his emotions. This was the second time today he had felt tears threaten. "Really?" It was a whisper, and he was disgusted with how pathetic it made him sound.

Don nodded. "You know what? I'm not really sure when that happened, or how it happened – I'm just sure that I want to keep it."

Charlie coughed a little, a more normal cough, to clear his throat. "I think I'm ready to start consulting again," he offered. "Then we would see each other more."

Don grinned briefly. "Good. The guys are about to show up and physically drag you in. But that's still work, Buddy. How about a standing appointment? Dinner every – I don't know – Tuesday, at least. Lunch with the team at least twice a month."

Charlie started to protest. "But you…"

Don interrupted. "If I'm out on a case, we reschedule, we don't wait for the next week."

Charlie regarded him for an instant, and a nagging worry pushed itself up a notch. He momentarily ignored it. "Okay," he said. "But Monday. I have a class Tuesday evening."

Don nodded. "Okay. Good. When you come in for lunch Monday, we'll talk to the others about getting together on a regular basis. You know, they're kind-of at loose ends, too. None of them has family here, and Dad was great about having them over all the time."

Charlie's eyes were back on the ceiling. "I am going to sell the house," he said, softly. "Being here helped, but I need to move on. I know I'll take memories with me wherever I land, but the memories in that house are…stronger than I am."

Don thought about that. "You know you can stay here whenever you want. You have a key. Will you buy another house? Rent an apartment?"

Charlie suddenly grinned. "Aren't you dating Robin, now? What if I show up some night and walk in on something too up close and personal?"

Don reached behind his back for the small pillow there and threw it at Charlie, who deflected it nicely, for a sick little wimp. "So call, first."

Charlie kept grinning. "Right. Interrupt a Marvin Gaye moment and you're gonna invite me right over. Either way, it's ruined for you. In one scenario, you have an audience; in the other, you're so guilty about turning me away that you can't…perform."

Don scowled. "Never say that. Such a thing cannot happen to an Eppes. At least not this one."

The brothers laughed together, and the sound bounced off the walls and made the room seem brighter for a moment. "Seriously," Don said, still smiling, "I want you to feel that you can come here."

"Thanks," said Charlie. "I really think it'll be all right. I'm going to do this rather quickly. With the insurance, plus what I already had, I can afford to move before it sells. I was thinking of an apartment, at least for a while. There are…some other changes I may be making." Charlie yawned again. We'll talk about those later, when I have more of a handle of things."

Don didn't like the sound of that, for some reason. He could see his brother was fading fast though, so he knew he wouldn't get anywhere tonight. "Let me talk to the landlord here," he said instead. "I mean, if you want. There could be something coming up. Remember, this is close to campus."

Charlie smiled tiredly. "Close to you, too," he said quietly. "I'd like that."

"Good." Don stood and walked to the hall closet, where he retrieved blankets and pillows for the couch. He walked back to Charlie and placed them next to him. "I'm tired too," he admitted. "Turning in early. You want something to eat, first?"

Charlie shook his head. "I think Larry left a sandwich. I might have that later."

"Okay," Don nodded, and he turned to leave. He took two steps and stopped, turned and looked at his brother. "Charlie. I hope you know that I love you."

Charlie had been surprised at Don's openness all evening, but this one almost stunned him into silence. "I know," he said at last. "I love you, too." Then he watched Don start walking again, eventually turning into the hall, and for the third time that day, Charlie found himself crying.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Charlie laid around on Don's couch for so long Sunday, Don began to hope Charlie had changed his mind about going home. Around 8, though, he began to gather his things together. In the bathroom, after his toothbrush, Charlie looked dismally at the laundry basket. He walked into the living room, where Don sat in the chair going over some notes from his week at Quantico.

"If you carry the basket to the car for me, I'll do this laundry at home," Charlie said. "Most of it is my fault, anyway."

Don looked up. "If I carry the basket to the car for you, who will carry it in when you get home?"

Charlie opened and closed his mouth like a fish. "Do you have any of those huge green garbage bags, for leaves? I could drag one of those in."

Don smiled at him fondly. "Chuck. You may have noticed. I don't have a lawn." Charlie looked distressed, and Don laughed. "Don't worry, I'll get it."

"I should have done it today. I feel asleep again."

"Speaking of which. Whatever that was hit you hard and fast, like an uppercut. I'm glad you're better – but you're still wiped, man. Isn't it Spring Break?"

Charlie nodded.

"Good," Don said. "Then you don't have to work. On campus, I mean. You can grade blue books at home. Maybe we should reschedule our team lunch – how about Wednesday, or Thursday?"

"Wednesday. I need to be back in my office by then at least, to prepare for the rest of the semester." Charlie looked at his backpack. "I think I have everything. Thanks for letting me stay."

Don stood to walk him out. "No problem. Here, I'll carry your lap top for you." Charlie gave it up, and the two walked out to his car. Charlie popped the trunk and tossed the backpack inside, then turned to Don and waited for him to release the lap top. Don held onto it. "Charlie, are you going to wait until summer on the house? Even if you teach summer session, it's usually not as busy, not as many classes, right?"

Charlie looked at his feet. "Do you not want me to sell?"

Don laid the laptop in the trunk carefully and closed it. "It's not that. I haven't lived there is years, this is your decision. I was just wondering if…that is…I know it's silly…"

Charlie leaned against the car, facing him. "You can have anything you want, Donnie. I'll put some things in storage, maybe bring some with me – all my books, for instance – but you come some weekend soon, and we'll start going through things. There's still a lot of mom's stuff in the garage, and boxes of toys from when we were kids…I think Dad was saving them for grandchildren." They were both silent, and heard the faint hum of a plane overhead. The grandchildren Alan had wanted so badly would never even meet him. Charlie started speaking again. "After we both have what we want, I'm backing a dumpster up to the house and calling an auctioneer. God."

"You don't have to do it, Charlie," Don reminded him gently. "What about the koi?"

Charlie ran a hand through his hair and looked toward the road. "I thought that would be the hardest part, myself," he mused, "but Dad loved those fish as much as I did…do. It just doesn't seem right to have them without him. I'll let them go with the house – after an in-depth background check on the prospective owners, and their treatment of mammals."

Don smiled quietly in the dark. "Whatever you need, Bro – just let me help, okay? I mean, not just so I can stake my claim on things – I want to help you, make it easier, if I can."

Charlie coughed a little, and Don shook himself and started for the driver's door. "You need to get out of the night air. So Wednesday, right?"

Charlie followed close behind and took the door from him. "Right."

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Charlie was still tired enough from being sick that sleeping was not a problem back at the house, and when he showed up in the bullpen at 11:30 Wednesday morning, he looked much better than he had on Sunday. Don smiled up at him from his desk. "Chuck! Right on time!"

Charlie coughed briefly into his arm. "Where is everybody?"

Don frowned. "Still coughing?"

Charlie rolled his eyes. "Coughs do that, Don. They linger. I'm all right. The team?"

Before Don could answer, Charlie felt himself lifted off his feet from behind. He flailed wildly in the air for a moment before he was set back on solid ground. "Whiz Kid!", he heard in his ear, "I thought you'd never get here! I'm starving!"

Charlie turned, a little out of breath. "That was not professional behavior, Agent Granger," he said, trying to look serious.

"Damn straight," answered Colby happily. "Come on, Eppsies – Megan and Colby are waiting in the lobby."

After the five had settled in a small restaurant within walking distance and had placed their orders, Megan set the small bag she had brought with her in front of Charlie.

"What's this?", he asked, confused.

"Just a few things from Quantico – and the plane ride home. We missed you."

Charlie was embarrassed and looked at Don. "This is stupid. I was just kidding about the present."

Don grinned at him. "Too late now! Go ahead, each item has a story."

Still embarrassed, Charlie opened the bag. He withdrew first a black t-shirt. He shook it out, and saw the "Quantico Training Facility" emblazoned on the front. He smiled. "Story?" he asked.

Don shrugged. "The story is, it was Friday before I figured out what I could bring you. That's the shirt I wore all week. Don't worry – I washed it."

Charlie laughed, re-folded the shirt and reached back in the bag, this time coming out with a "Sharp Shooter" shooting range baseball cap, also black.

"That's mine," Megan said. "It may be a little small for you, but let's face it – you wouldn't get anything over that hair anyway!"

They all laughed, and Charlie went back to the bag. Face impassive, he brought out two packets of trail mix in United Airlines packages.

"Also mine," Megan admitted. "I was worried the hat wasn't enough."

Charlie shook his head and smiled at her. "I hope you brought Larry something."

She blushed. "Um…could I have those back, maybe?"

This time he laughed so loud other diners turned to look. Don was happy to hear Charlie let loose, so he glared at them. Charlie handed the hat back to Megan. "Give him this – like you said, I can never get it on, anyway."

Megan blushed again and thanked him. "I really did bring it back for you," she insisted, hanging onto it nonetheless.

"I believe you," Charlie assured her with a grin, reaching into the bag and pulling out two airline bottles of vodka and a shot glass that said "Washington, D.C."

"That is what I wanted our first night in the woods, when the mosquitos wouldn't leave me alone and Colby wouldn't stop singing," supplied David.

Charlie thought the bag was empty, as he smiled at David and prepared to put things back into it, but then he saw a small metal object stuck in a corner. He reached in and took it out. He turned it over in his fingers. It looked like…several nickels smashed together by a train, or something. The only one left was Colby, so he looked at him. "That's from the vest," the agent told him. "Since you were nice enough to pass out over it and break your wrist, I thought you should have it."

Charlie tried to smile his thanks, but he felt a chill, holding the round Colby caught in the vest. It reminded him of how vulnerable all of the people at this table were, of how quickly they could be ripped out of his life. It also reminded him of those days when everyone was in the hospital, days that led to Alan's death. He was glad when the food came, and he hastily replaced everything in the bag, thanking everyone again.

Colby watched him throughout lunch, letting the others guide the conversation. He felt terrible. He had come to think of the round as a symbol of hope, and good luck, but he had seen the look on Charlie's face when he had realized what it was. He ate quickly, willing the others to, hoping the other gift, the one in his pocket, would make up for it.

Finally, they sat sipping coffee and waiting for the check. The dishes had been cleared away. Charlie had gone to the restroom, and when he got back, Colby looked at him anxiously. "Hey, kid, you'll never guess who was on the plane on the way back."

Charlie looked at him quizzically. "Who?"

Colby smiled. This was going to be good. "I took him a napkin for his autograph. I knew you followed his career…Anyway, he actually had some balls in his carryon luggage, and he signed one for you!" Colby reached into his jacket pocket and palmed a golf ball. He offered it to his friend. "Golf balls are kind-of small, so 'BWC" means 'Best Wishes Charlie'. He signed his whole name, though, see: 'Tiger Woods'." Charlie took the ball and Colby beamed.

Charlie sat, stricken, and looked at the ball. Followed Tiger Woods' career? Only because it gave him something to talk about with his father besides math. In fact, pleasing his father was the only reason he ever played golf himself. Alan would have loved this. Alan would have LOVED this. Alan would have carried this around until the name wore off. Alan would have shouted, and hugged Colby, and….oh, God. Dad was dead.

Charlie dropped the golf ball from nerveless fingers and looked desperately at Don. Oh, God.

Don caught the ball as it was rolling off the table and looked at his brother with concern. "Charlie?"

Charlie scooted back his chair. "Oh, God," he said, his face so pale Don was worried he was going to pass out.

"Charlie?", Don repeated, reaching for him, but Charlie pushed out of his reach. He was still staring at Don, and now he was breathing rapidly.

"D-d-daaa-dddd," he choked out in one long stutter, and before anyone reacted, he was out of the chair and shoving a waiter, who had arrived with the check, out of the way. He broke into a run, startling the other diners, and hit the door at full speed.

The waiter cautiously slipped the check on the table and disappeared, and Colby looked with horror at Don. "What did I do?"

Don looked back in confusion. "I'm not sure. I think…maybe golf, Dad loved golf. He looked like he got slammed by a truck."

Megan stared at the table. "Delayed reaction," she said. "I think it just hit him. Like a ton of bricks."

Don started to get up. "I'd better go after him."

Colby put a hand out. "Let me. It's my fault. First the bullet, then the golf ball…at least give me a head start."

Don was worried about Charlie, running like a blind man in downtown L.A. traffic…but he knew how much his brother meant to the team, as well, and he could see that Colby felt badly. He resettled in his chair and nodded at the man. "Head start," he agreed, and Colby took off almost as fast as Charlie had.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

By the time he got to the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Colby could just barely see Charlie's curly head bobbing almost a block away already. The little twerp was fast, but Granger didn't chase perps all day for nothing. Within half a block he was close behind him, close enough to see Charlie veer into an alley. "Charlie!" Colby yelled, and veered in after him. Charlie had been driven by demons, but even they could not propel his weakened body forever. The illness still hadn't run its course – but soon Charlie had. He began to slow and Colby was on him, grabbing him by the back of the jacket collar. "Charlie, stop. Come on." Colby dragged him to the side of the alley, near the service entrance of some business.

Charlie, breathing hard, leaned over to put his hands on his knees. He thought for a few long seconds that he would throw up, and he fought back the bile. He felt Colby's hand on his back, and sensed the agent standing over him. When his stomach was more settled, and his breathing had evened out some, he slowly rose to his full height. He found that he couldn't look at Colby. "I'm sorry," he said, head hanging almost to his chest.

Colby grabbed the back of his neck. "Hey, no, I'm sorry Charlie. The bullet and the golf ball – both really bad ideas. I should have run it by Don first, or something." Colby dropped his hand and made a half turn, swearing. "Damn, Whiz Kid, I just keep messing up your life."

Charlie looked at him, then, taking a half step himself so he could see Colby's face. "What…" He was still a little winded. "What are you talking about?"

Colby met his gaze with such naked pain that Charlie had to take a step back. "I never should have talked to you like that at the house, when Don and Larry…and your Dad…were in the hospital. You've been thinking all this time that you have to be strong, or something. But you don't, Charlie." Colby looked supremely frustrated, hands on hips. "Or maybe you do. Stronger than any of us thought. Strong enough to let yourself feel."

Charlie felt the ice around his heart cracking, and he hurried to reassure Colby before he melted. "No, Colby, you were right. I needed to think about other people, then. And if you hadn't done that, if you had let me stay locked inside the house, locked inside myself…God, Colby, I would have missed the last two days of my father's life. I never would have seen him again, talked to him again, touched him again…" His voice cracked. "I never thanked you for that."

Colby was still looking at him, speechless, when Don caught up to them in the alley. He hadn't been far behind Colby, and at the entrance to the alley Don had hung back a little, to give them some time together. Now, he approached his brother from behind Granger. "Charlie," he said, and at the sound of his voice Charlie jerked his head around until he could see him. When he did, his shoulders began to shake and Don could see tears in his eyes. He looked at him, wounded.

"Donnie…how did that happen? He wasn't old. He wasn't sick. It was a cut, it was nothing…"

Don had come up beside him and draped an arm around his shoulder. "I know, Buddy. It was a terrible shock." He watched Charlie's face and saw a tear roll down his cheek and fall off his chin onto the pavement below. He tightened his grip for a moment, then just moved in front of Charlie and enveloped him in an all-out hug. He put a hand to the back of Charlie's head, and spoke quietly into his ear. "It's gonna be all right. I've got you, now. I'm here, Buddy."

Charlie buried his face in Don's shoulder, and slowly, raised both hands until he was hugging Don in return. He felt his knees buckle, and felt Don lower them both gently to the ground, still hugging him. Charlie leaned into Don, and smelled the familiar scent of him, the sweat that was all Don and the Old Spice that reminded him of Alan, and sobbed. His hands moved so that he was clutching the sleeves of Don's jacket, and he sobbed because he had ever thought a cruise would be a good birthday present. He sobbed because he hadn't told his father he loved him, the last time he saw him. He sobbed because he knew the man he held onto so desperately now could be taken from him just as quickly. He sobbed because his heart was broken, and because it was day 83, and Alan would never smile at him again.

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Somehow – Charlie never knew or cared to find out exactly how -- Colby and Don got him into a vehicle and back to Don's apartment. He let himself be led up the stairs, hiccupping, and didn't even argue when Don pushed him down on the bed and took off his jacket. Charlie was exhausted, more exhausted than he ever remembered being in his life. He sank into the mountain of pillows and felt someone take his shoes off. He didn't care who. He just wanted to sleep. Charlie wanted to sleep, so he could wake up and this nightmare would be over.

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The room was dark, and so quiet he could hear a digital number roll over in the clock next to his head. He moved carefully, unaccountably sore, and his foot brushed against something solid. He peered in the darkness and could just see the outline of someone sitting on the end of the bed. "Who's there?" he asked, too curious to be frightened.

The voice was soft, almost like velvet, yet somehow strong, self-assured. "It's not a dream, you know, son. Well, this part may be, but not the part you're hoping for."

Charlie's heart began to pound. "Dad?"

"You shouldn't worry so much." Alan actually chuckled a little. "Isn't that what you always used to tell me? Now I'm telling you. A man could not be your father and not feel your love, Charlie. You didn't have to tell me."

"Can I touch you?", Charlie whispered.

"Always," said his father. "As I will always touch you. This connection between us, my boy – it's eternal."

"I meant now," Charlie pouted, and Alan chuckled again.

"No. No, Charlie…right now, you have to wake up."

And with a jerk, Charlie did, to find himself again sleeping with his clothes on in Don's bed.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Lying awake, Charlie could hear activity in the kitchen, so he got up and padded down the hall. He found Don sitting at the counter drinking coffee and scribbling something on a piece of paper.

"What time is it?", Charlie asked, standing behind him, and Don slammed the coffee cup onto the counter, sloshing the liquid over the rim onto the paper, and automatically reached for his weapon as he whirled. Charlie should probably stop doing that to people.

"Geez, Charlie…" sighed Don when he saw him. "It's 6:30. I have to leave for work soon, I was just leaving you a note." He looked with dismay at the now-soaked slip of paper.

Charlie moved up a little into the kitchen, considering the coffee. "Did you get a call, or something? Why are you going back out at 6:30 in the evening?"

"Hand me a towel, at least," Don answered, and when Charlie did, Don clued him in. "It's 6:30 Thursday morning, Charlie. You slept 15 hours."

Charlie's eyes got wide. "You're kidding."

Don shook his head. "Nope. Had one crying jag and two coughing fits, and none of it woke you up."

Charlie must have kept Don awake all night. He didn't want him playing with guns when he was exhausted. "I'm sorry, Don. You shouldn't work today if I kept you up all night. It's not safe," he added worriedly.

Don slipped from the stool and brushed past Charlie to throw the soaked towel in the sink. Turning back to his brother, he waited until Charlie was looking him in the eye, and spoke firmly, with conviction. "I'll be okay, Charlie. Megan and I are actually in court today." He allowed his eyes to reflect his concern. "How are you?"

Charlie considered. "I can't believe it," he finally said, "but I'm still tired."

Don nodded in acceptance. "Not hard for me to believe. You had what Megan called a 'delayed reaction' to Dad's death yesterday. That's a big, big deal, Buddy. Plus, you're still recuperating. Why don't you stay here for a while today and get some more sleep?"

Charlie could see that Don was worried and he tried to reassure him. "I may be effectively trapped," he said. "I'm pretty sure my car is at your office."

Don smiled, a little relieved, but his eyes did not entirely clear. "Right. You can go in with me in the morning and get it." He looked at his watch. "I hate to leave you alone today. We're supposed to meet with the Assistant D.A. on this case for breakfast to go over some things."

Charlie crossed his arms and lifted an eyebrow. "Wouldn't be any chance be Robin, would it?" He looked Don up and down. "You're rather spiffily attired, even for court."

Don reddened. "Shut up. And so what if it is Robin? I told you, Megan will be there. It's business."

Charlie looked at him seriously. "Make sure that doesn't happen too often, okay? Ask her out before the day is over, so she knows you're really interested."

This time Don raised an eyebrow. "Giving me love connection advice, Little Brother? When's the last time you had a date?"

Charlie backed off a step, looking chagrined, and Don was sorry he'd said that. Amita had been gone for over a year, and as far as he knew, Charlie hadn't seen anybody more than once during that time.

Charlie yawned. "Whatever. I'm just saying. Why should we both be idiots?"

Now Don felt even worse. "Charlie, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

Charlie waved a hand. "I know, I know, don't get all upset." He yawned again. "Geez. I am So. Tired."

"You should eat something before you go back to bed. At least some toast. I have bread. I think."

Charlie smiled at him a little. "Go to breakfast, Don. I can handle this."

"I'll check my cell for messages whenever there's a recess. If you need something faster than that, call Colby, or David, or Larry…"

Charlie stepped behind Don and began to physically steer him toward the door. "Got it," he promised. "Colby. David. Larry. Voice mail. I think that should do it."

At the door, Don grabbed the knob and then turned his head to look in Charlie's direction, although it was more at his chest than his face. "I promise to ask Robin out again today," he said quickly, and then he was gone, leaving Charlie grinning in the apartment.

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Charlie did try to sleep again, but he couldn't stop thinking about Don and Robin, about what that might mean for his brother, about decisions unmade or made too late.

He dozed fitfully, woke continually, and at 10 gave up. He knew what he had to do. He wandered through Don's apartment until he found a phone book, and made a few calls. The last of them was for a cab. While he was waiting, he scrawled Don a note, a long one: _Don, I decided to take these last few days of Spring Break to pursue something I have been thinking about for quite some time. Please don't worry about me. Call my cell if you need to hear my voice to believe that I'm all right – I have it with me. Not sure when I'll be back. (I can see your face now. I mean Saturday or Sunday, not "maybe this weekend, maybe next year".) Let you know. Thanks for everything._

At the end, Charlie hesitated, then decided he had hesitated too many times already. He signed the note, large and decisive: _Love, Charlie_

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It was almost midnight before he got there, and even though he had dozed on the plane, he was exhausted again. He grabbed a cab to the closest hotel with a vacancy, and called Don, who had left five voice mail messages, from the back seat. When he reached Don's voice mail, he was pleased for two reasons. One, he didn't have to try to sound as if he weren't tired for a long period of time; and two, he hoped it meant Don was with Robin. He left a brief message, trying to sound as chipper as possible, disconnected and relaxed against the seat. The hotel was less than 10 minutes away, but he was still almost asleep before he arrived, and later had no clear memory of checking in.

He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow, and he slept for almost 10 hours without waking. When he finally did, he staggered blindly into the bathroom. Coming back into the room proper after his shower, he was shocked to see that it was after 11 already. Breakfast turned out to be lunch, and as he sat in a deli close to his ultimate destination, he smiled to think how proud everyone would be if they could hear him say that he was starving.

He grew increasingly nervous as he approached the office, yet his resolve strengthened. He wanted to do this. He finally reached the door, which was ajar a few inches. He heard the low murmur of voices — someone was already in there. He knocked anyway.

"Posted office hours don't begin for 15 minutes," came a low, masculine voice. "Please come back later."

Charlie paused with his hand in the air, poised to knock again.

"Stop that," he heard, in the voice he had expected the first time. "My students know they can come by anytime."

The door swung open. She gasped, and her eyes got wide.

Charlie lowered his hand and smiled. "Hey, Amita."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Amita threw herself around him, and Charlie found the sensation pleasant. All too soon, she drew back, and pulled him into her office. Standing behind her desk was a man in his 30s. He was holding a book, and he had a beard.

Charlie didn't like him.

"Charlie, what are you doing here? Why didn't you call? How long can you stay?" Amita hugged him again, and Charlie made a point of kissing her on the cheek while he looked at the other man behind the desk. _Take that_, he thought.

Amita may have heard him think. This time when she pulled back, she glanced at the other guy. "Charlie, this is Dr. Mark Messner. He's tenured in the Lit Department." She hurried on. "Mark, this is Dr. Charles Eppes, from CalSci. He was my advisor while I was going for my first doctorate, in math."

Charlie felt as if she had thrown a bucket of cold water in his face. _He was her advisor? That was how she introduced a man who'd flown halfway across the country to see her? Her advisor?_

He smiled at Dr. Messner coldly, took a few steps and offered his hand. "Dr. Is Amita explaining why the literature of H.G. Wells is fiction?"

Amita looked at him sharply and Messner squeezed his hand so hard it hurt. "Actually, she was just telling me why she picked astrophysics over 2 + 2."

Amita glared at him and stepped in-between the two men. She looked up at Charlie. "It's so good to see you. A real surprise — but a good surprise. Mark and I just returned from lunch." She tried to study Charlie carefully. Larry had contacted her when Charlie's father died a few months ago, and she had lobbied hard for the time off to fly back for the service. Unfortunately, she was still "low man on the totem pole" in the faculty hierarchy at Harvard, and she hadn't been able to arrange it. She had settled for sending a long note to both Charlie and Don, and an arrangement of flowers. She and Charlie had exchanged a few e-mails since then, but she couldn't really judge from them how he was. Losing his father so soon after his mother…she had thought of him often in the last three months. She could see the lines of sadness and stress and fatigue in his face, and wished she could leave the office with him right now. "My office hours begin soon," she started, "and the students are gearing up for mid-terms…"

Charlie took his steel gaze away from Dr. Messner and his chocolate brown eyes were soft when they landed on her. "I know. Just did that myself. I don't want to interrupt…would you be able to meet me for dinner?"

Amita smiled radiantly. There was a faculty meeting, but she would skip it. It would be the first one she had missed, they could live with that. "Absolutely. Meet me back here at…6? Is that too late?"

Charlie refused to look at Messner again. "Of course not," he assured her. "It's not too late at all." With all that was within him, Charlie hoped that statement was true.

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Amita took Charlie to a restaurant within walking distance of the school, and they ate on the patio, even though it was cool, in the spring. On the way there, she spoke of Alan. "I was so sorry to hear about your father. He was always so nice to me. I truly wish I could have come."

"Thank-you." It sounded automatic. "We got your note, and the flowers. We both appreciate that."

She tried to bring him out a little more. "These must have been very difficult months for you."

"Yes," Charlie said, and it still sounded rehearsed. "For Don too, of course." He quickly changed the subject. "Larry and Megan are an item."

Amita almost stumbled, and Charlie reached out to steady her. "You're kidding. As in F.B.I. Megan?"

"The one and only," Charlie smiled, and when he let go of her arm, his hand just naturally fell into hers, and they walked that way the remainder of the distance to the restaurant.

He let her direct the conversation during dinner, not sure how or when to say what he had come to say. In the end, she led him into it over coffee and dessert. "So. I know it's Spring Break for you Charlie, but why the sudden urge to see Boston?"

He looked at her over a forkful of apple pie, then lowered the full fork to his dessert plate. "More like a sudden urge to see you," he said, and she blushed – which he expected – but also looked decidedly uncomfortable. He began to play with his coffee cup. "You and Dr. Messner are…seeing each other?"

She played with her own coffee cup. "We've been dating a few months," she admitted honestly, "but I'm not prepared to say that it's serious."

Charlie took a deep breath, and steeled himself. He lay both hands flat on the table in front of him, where they touched hers, and looked her dead-center in the eye. "I want to say it's serious," he started. "You. Me. Us. Together, I mean."

She didn't move her hands, but she looked down at them. "Charlie…"

He hastened on. "I'm not asking you to move back. I'll move East. I have a job offer in Boston. The Emerson think tank."

She raised her eyes again and searched his face, looking for something, and looked away briefly when she found it. Shifting in her chair, she pulled her hands back from Charlie's and gazed at him, her eyes soft. "Charlie…Maybe…Maybe if you were running to me, instead of running away from L.A., and all you've lost there."

He bristled. "I'm not. I mean, I am. You know what I mean."

She leaned back and crossed her arms over her chest. "Charlie, if after all this we can't be honest… I want you to honestly tell me. Have you been thinking 'I want to be with Amita. What can I do to accomplish that?' Or, have you been thinking, 'I want to leave all this pain, all these memories, behind. I can do that if I move East, and pursue a real relationship with Amita.' Which comes first, Charlie? Honestly?"

The waiter chose that moment to bring more coffee, and Charlie sat back in his own chair and thought, tried to remember why he thought this would be a good idea. He watched cars passing on the street and absently added the numbers in the license plates he could still see in the dimming light. When he reached 1,000, he looked back at Amita.

"I'm so sorry. Maybe I am running away. And you deserve more than that."

She smiled, a little sadly, and leaned back in to the table. "Charlie, I will always consider you a dear friend, I hope you know that. We all run away, sometimes. I hope that when you do, you always feel safe running to me. I treasure our friendship, Charlie…but I don't believe it will ever be anything more than that."

He looked at her, and knew that she was right. He had done this for all the wrong reasons. Still, he looked at her, and felt another piece of his heart chip away.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

When Don finally reached Charlie's actual person, rather than his voice mail, on Saturday morning, Charlie told him he was on the way to the airport to come home, and asked if he could pick him up that afternoon.

Don was extremely curious about this 48-hour jaunt Charlie took, when he was still sick and hadn't even finished grading his mid-terms. "Well yeah, Charlie, but where the hell are you?"

"Just getting to the terminal," Charlie lied, sitting in a cab outside the sciences quad at Harvard. "Gotta turn off the cell. United pick-up, okay? Thanks, Don." Charlie disconnected, halfway suspecting that Don might do a trace on his GPS chip, and stared up at the building for a while. Amita had an interior office, so he couldn't see it, but he looked at the third floor for a long time before he told the driver to head for the airport.

The cab driver pulled into traffic, and Charlie turned his attention to the hands he held in his lap. "Good-bye, Amita," he whispered, and then he turned his head to stare out the other window.

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He thought he would sleep on the plane again on the way back to L.A., but instead he thought about what Amita had said. Around Colorado, he decided that she was correct, but had left something out. He didn't want to just run from what had happened in L.A. He needed to run from what would. The realization sunk into his gut like a stone, and by the time he came out of the LAX United terminal, and spotted Don's SUV waiting for a spot to pull over, he felt completely bereft, repelled by his own weaknesses.

He jogged toward the SUV. Don saw him coming and smiled, and the passenger door was unlocked by the time Charlie got there with his one, pathetic, carry on bag. He jerked the door open and tossed it in the back, slid into the seat and reached for the seatbelt. "Thanks for coming to get me," he said, looking at Don briefly, and then out the window.

Don headed for the freeway. Wherever Charlie had gone, it hadn't made him any happier. "Are you okay?"

Charlie was tired. Tired of people leaving him, one way or the other. Tired of trying to pretend it didn't matter. Tired of trying to present a stoic face to the world. Too tired to play the game, anymore.

"Actually," he shifted in the seat a little to face Don, "I went to Boston to ask Amita for a commitment. I told her I would accept a position I've been offered in a think tank there, and move East. I laid it all out there, Donnie. You would have been amazed."

Don had nearly been to the exit, but he veered off to a gas station instead, and drove to the back of the lot, where he parked and shut off the engine. He released his seat belt and turned completely sideways in the driver's seat, so that he could see Charlie's face. "You what?"

Charlie nodded solemnly. "Yes. Then, over coffee, she thoroughly 0.dumped me. As she should have. Correctly, and politely." He started to look down at the gear shift and then jerked his head back up. "Oh, yeah. And she's seeing someone else."

Don emitted a low whistle. "I did not," he said, "even see that one coming."

Charlie chuckled bitterly, and settled back in his seat, facing front. "Then this one will kill you."

Don waited, and felt…fear?

Charlie continued. "I won't be going to Boston. For obvious reasons. But I have pretty much a standing offer from Princeton, and I think I will accept for next school year."

Don was so stunned he felt his jaw fall open. "What?" Charlie didn't say anything, so he went on. "Why? Are you unhappy at CalSci?"

Charlie shook his head, and when he spoke again, all anger and bitterness was gone, and only sadness remained. "No. I love it at CalSci. I always have."

Don tried to understand. "Then…you feel like you have to get away from L.A. because it all reminds you of Dad? And Mom?"

"Not…completely," said Charlie, and all the tiredness of the last 86 days crept into his voice. "I don't think I can do it, again. I really don't."

"I don't understand," Don whined, because he honestly didn't. "Do what?"

Charlie kept looking out the windshield. "I cannot get the call, Don. I cannot sit here and wait to get the call. I truly don't think I would survive that."

Comprehension was slowly dawning on Don. He rubbed his hand over his face, then spoke softly. "Buddy…you're my brother. You're going to get the call – if there is ever one to get -- no matter where you live. Will it be easier for you, to be in New Jersey when it comes? To know you can't get to me for hours?" Don was warming up, now. "Because I gotta tell ya, that's what still gives me nightmares. Not losing Dad. That makes me sad, and I miss him – but the nightmares? They're all about the time I couldn't be with him, at the end."

Charlie looked back at him quickly, a look of panic on his face, and Don could see that he hadn't thought of that possibility. Don put a hand on his brother's arm. "I've got a standing offer, myself. Administration. I can move into it whenever I want. It's safer – almost as safe as any other white collar job. Would that make you feel better?"

Charlie blinked. "You'd do that?"

Don flicked his eyes toward the windshield. "I've been with the Bureau over 12 years. Fugitive Recovery, Albuquerque, L.A. I know how worried Mom and Dad always were, all this time. And once you figured out what it is I actually do, you've been that worried, too. It's not fair of me, to make everybody worry so much. I've had my time in the field."

Charlie studied him. He wanted to ask him to do it. God, he wanted to tell him to do it right now, today, call Merrick at home. Instead he said, "Mom and Dad never asked you to give it up. They were proud of you."

Don shrugged, looking back at him. "Proud and worried."

Charlie felt as though his heart might explode with the effort of what he said next. "I won't ask you to do that, either. Hell, I won't allow it. You're a field agent, Don. You love it. You're good at it. And…I'm proud of you, too."

Don looked down quickly, so Charlie wouldn't see the tears that threatened. Once he had control again, he looked back up. "So I think this is what we in the business like to call a 'Mexican stand-off'. Although I have no idea where that particular phrase originated."

"No," mused Charlie, "you're right – just like Amita was right. I don't want to be in New Jersey and get the call. I want to be as close as I can be…mostly, I don't want to get the call at all." He sighed. "Damn. I don't seem to have any idea who I am, or what I want. Everybody else has to tell me."

Don smiled at him fondly. "Little Brother, we all do the best we can. That's why we have each other. For perspective. Wise counsel."

Charlie smiled shyly. "Love," he added, unexpectedly. "Don't forget love."

"I could never forget love," Don promised. "I've been surround by it all my days. I've been loved by the best – and I still am."

"To within an inch of your life," Charlie muttered quietly as he looked away, still smiling a little.

Don grinned at his brother's profile, having just gone places with him he never thought either one of them would end up. He didn't know if he should be embarassed that it had happened -- or embarassed that it didn't happen sooner. He decided just to let it lie, and ferment a litte. He resituated himself in the driver's seat and buckled up. Then, he started the engine, and they began the uncertain drive into the future, each with the one certainty he had left sitting next to him.

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FINIS

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………… 

Partial Lyrics, "I Will Remember You", Sarah McLachlan:

_I will remember you, will you remember me? _

_Don't let your life pass you by -- Weep not for the memories… _

_I'm so tired but I can't sleep Standin' on the edge of something much too deep. _

_It's funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word..._

_We are screaming inside, but we can't be heard. _

_But I will remember you, will you remember me? _

_Don't let your life pass you by -- Weep not for the memories..._

_I'm so afraid to love you But more afraid to lose;_

_Clinging to a past that doesn't let me choose. _

_Once there was a darkness, Deep and endless night _

_You gave me everything you had, oh you gave me light. _

_And I will remember you, will you remember me?_


End file.
